


Mortal Coil

by Sirca



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:13:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirca/pseuds/Sirca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrathion fears many things, and sometimes he acts on those fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mortal Coil

The sickness spreads through the city at an alarming rate. Business close, people stay indoors, and Stormwind stands disturbingly still. No one remains unaffected, even Prince Anduin Wrynn. No one except of course for Wrathion. Whatever illness has gripped the humans hasn’t affected him.

At least, not until now.

The healers suggest letting it run its course. There is only so much they can do, even while battling it themselves. Wrathion wants to take them by the collar, demand they make Anduin better.

But Anduin thrashes in his sleep, and his attention is once again on the prince.

He mutters something, something Wrathion can’t quite make out. Wrathion perches on the edge of the bed, folding his legs beneath him. The frailty of human life has not been on his mind before, but now, when he sees the pale skin and sheen of sweat break across Anduin’s skin…

“Wrathion?”

His head snaps up. Anduin’s eyes are open once more, thankfully.

“Rest easy, my prince,” he finds himself saying. “No harm will come to you on my watch.”

Anduin gives him a small, frail smile that makes Wrathion’s heart clinch in his chest. He stays with him until he rests peacefully, his breathing even and steady, before he leaves to find the healers once more. Perhaps they’ll release him of this illness sooner rather than later.

When he returns again, he stays. Anduin grows stronger. And then, Wrathion forgets why he was afraid.

***

But harm does come to Prince Anduin on Wrathion’s watch, and that familiar fear grips him once more. An assassin plunges an arrow into his chest. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he is in his draconic form. He grabs the assassin with jaws and sharp claws, wringing their lifeblood out like they had done to Anduin Wrynn.

“Wrathion, stop.”

Anduin’s clutching at his shoulder. One of his body guards stand next to him, sword drawn. The arrow hasn’t done nearly as much damage as it could, as much damage as he feared it would. Anduin’s face is hard, most likely from the amount of pain he is in and Wrathion’s current actions.

“Stop,” he says again, louder this time.

He wants to tell him no.  _No_ , this insignificant little wretch nearly took you out of this world. They don’t deserve your mercy. They deserve this. After a tense moment, he drops the would-be assassin to the ground. She crumples, curls in on herself. Wrathion growls in response.

“That’s enough,” Anduin stands, shakily. Wrathion notices every pained movement. He knows what will come next. Anduin will see them on trial. He would see them given a second chance, like Garrosh Hellscream, like so many others. His mercy would be the death of him.

Wrathion drops to the ground, folds his wings, and watches. He growls as the guards hoist the assassin up. A warning.

***

He can only warn so many, do so much. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he plucks a gray hair free from Anduin’s head. It’s difficult to notice, at first, given how fair his hair is. But Wrathion sees it, sees its brethren join it, and resents every single one.

Anduin gives him a look. “What was that for?”

Should he say he fears Anduin growing old? That he fears being left alone in the world? No, he would not be Wrathion, he would not be the Black Prince or the last of his flight, if he gave away everything. More importantly, he doesn’t want Anduin to worry about  _his_  worrying.

“To use in my schemes, of course,” he answers, lips splitting into a large grin. “I am given to understand many potions work better with the essence of a kingly nature. Your hair will do nicely.”

Anduin laughs, a small breathy thing. Wrathion never hears more than that, even though he tries to coax it free. “Using potions now, are we? Whatever happened to breathing fire?”

“Subtle tools for subtle trades, Prince Anduin,” he says.

***

If only he could use a potion to stop death. To reverse time like his bronze cousins. Instead, when the bells toll overhead, he finds himself part of the somber march out of the cathedral and into the graveyard. The King is dead.

Anduin’s face is stony as he stands at the head of the procession. Though his relationship with his father was rocky at time, he loved him dearly. Varian Wrynn was, after all, the last remaining family he had.

They bury him next to the late Queen Tiffin. Anduin remains, half surrounded by body guards, long after the ceremonies end. Mist rolls in, and Wrathion notices how he folds his arms under his chest. When he feels it’s appropriate, Wrathion goes to him.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Anduin says, his voice small.

Neither can Wrathion, truth be told. King Varian was larger than life, a warrior to be reckoned with. He had lived as he had died, with a sword in hand and a steely resolve. He opens his mouth to say as much, but the tears rolling openly and freely down Anduin’s cheeks give him pause. Instead, he wraps his arm around his shoulder, a gesture he hopes will bring him some comfort.

They stand like that for a while, staring at the memorial stone until the words blur and the light fades. Eventually, they must leave.

Anduin doesn’t look back as he trudges down the path back to the keep. But Wrathion does.

He can’t help but stare at the empty plot next to King Varian. He can’t help but think of the day he will stand here, staring down at all of them. Icy hands clench at his heart before he turns away.

***

Ice, however, is not how it ends. It ends in fiery pain as one of the doomlord’s blades rips through the soft, exposed underbelly. Wrathion plummets to the ground from a great height.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there in agony. Unable to move, unable to get to safety, to find someone to put him back in the fight. The world is hazy and filled with smoke when he finally hears Anduin’s voice calling his name.

All the time he spent wondering if he’d be left alone. All the time spent worrying, and it is he who will leave Anduin. If he could laugh at the irony, he would. Instead, he makes a sound akin to a groan.

Anduin drops to his knees next to him. He’s smeared in blood and soot. His hair has fallen free from its tie. Wrathion wants to remember this. This image. And a thousand others. But his vision swims.

“No, no! Don’t you dare die on me!” he hears faintly. He feels healing power surge through him, to attempt to mend the flesh and close the veins. If he had the strength, he would tell Anduin to save it for someone who truly needed it. He is going to die here.

When he slips into unconsciousness, he thinks he mutters an apology.

_I am sorry for leaving you behind._

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the angst. First time writing the pairing and it's this. :c


End file.
